


nowhere safer than in your arms

by AppleJuiz



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Fluff, Light Angst, Living Together, Sharing a Bed, Spooning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 15:57:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11039466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppleJuiz/pseuds/AppleJuiz
Summary: It's on these nights that when they curl up under the duvet that she wraps around him, rests her forehead against his neck, let her nose brush against the collar of his shirt. Her arms wrap around his waist and he threads his fingers into hers.It feels safe. He's always admitted to it, that he likes being the little spoon, that being wrapped up like this makes him feel safe.





	nowhere safer than in your arms

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little jakexamy fic that's been floating around in my brain for a while that I can finally write now that I have free time. I hope you enjoy it!

There are two types of nights. 

The first he expects. It's been a rough year, more than any year really has the right to be. From Florida to night shift, fighting for the 99, Gina’s accident. This year has punched him in the face. Repeatedly. 

And he can laugh through it, smile throughout the day because despite everything, things are still okay. The 99 is together and well. He loves his job and he loves Amy and he still has both of them and more everyday. He has plenty to smile about. 

But some nights he find himself walking slowly through their apartment, staring at the organized chaos of it. His Die Hard posters next to her framed nature paintings. His swirly straws in the cabinet next to her teacups. 

He loves their apartment to bits, this beautiful combination of them. He was a little intimidated when he was moving all his stuff in. Her apartment used to scare him, like if he touched something it would break and she would freak out and he'd have to leave. But it was different now. She had meticulously reorganized when he agreed to move in, leaving large gaps in bookshelves (which was sweet but misguided), in the cabinets and the closet and the drawers. And now it was this hodgepodge of her color coded life and his chaotic hoard of stuff and he loves it. Loves them. 

He doesn't want to lose it. He lies down in their bed and stares at the ceiling and digs his fingers into the duvet like it can keep it all from flying away. 

He's spent most of this year fighting to keep the things he cares about and when he's not, he's waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something else to be put at risk. Not this though. Not their apartment, not Amy. He doesn't want to lose this ever. Just the thought of maybe losing this, the closest he's ever come to something real and secure, it sends his pulse racing, his palms sweating, his heart plummeting.

It sends him panicking, like nothing ever has before, because nothing has ever mattered this much. He's never had anything important to panic about. And now he does and it's more than he even thought he'd have and he can't bear to lose it. 

The ceiling is blank and perfectly white. It's so Amy. His old ceiling used to have a crack that grew a little larger every year. He thought he'd have to move out once it reached the ceiling light because he was too lazy to actually fix it but he would be paranoid about the ceiling caving in. 

He imagines if there was ever a crack in their ceiling it wouldn't survive the night. Amy has a closet of practical stuff for any emergency, and while he has no idea what half of the things in that closet do, he can picture her yanking out whatever stuff you use to fix a ceiling. He can imagine her in her sweats and a ratty old t-shirt with her hair pulled back into a tight bun. She'd pull out all the tools and get to work in that distinctly Amy way with her stern determined face. He'd be there to try to help but mostly offer moral support and she would roll her eyes at all his jokes and smile when he brought her a bottle of water. And then the crack would be fixed and she would clean up with a proud look on her face and he'd fall a little bit more in love with her. 

The ceiling would be perfect again and he'd probably end up back here, staring at it like it held the secrets of the universe, like it had the answers to his problems, like keeping his eyes on this tangible thing of theirs would keep it from being ripped away from him. 

Amy can always tell when it's one of these nights. She lays down on the bed next to him and stares at the ceiling with him. She takes his hand and lets him squeeze tight, lets him grip onto her and keep her there with him for a little while.

“Cold pizza isn't real dinner,” she says eventually. Or, “We're wrinkling the duvet.”, “You're not sleeping in your work clothes.” 

She pulls him away from the ceiling, tugs him into the kitchen for “real dinner”, or climbs under the covers with him, or guides him towards the shower. She drags him back into their night, runs her hand through his hair and kisses his forehead. Anything that he can't help but smile at. 

She's good at that, making him smile. She doesn't even have to try. 

It's on these nights that when they curl up under the duvet that she wraps around him, rests her forehead against his neck, let her nose brush against the collar of his shirt. Her arms wrap around his waist and he threads his fingers into hers. 

It feels safe. He's always admitted to it, that he likes being the little spoon, that being wrapped up like this makes him feel safe. And with Amy, warm against his back, her hair tickling his face, legs tangled with his, it's like he's being grounded. She's holding him in place, here where it's safe and warm and home, and she won't let him slip away in the middle of the night. Like she won't let him lose this. 

Her breath gusts over the back of his neck and he feels calm. It's a reminder that no matter what this year has thrown at them, they've overcome it. She's here and he's here in their apartment. Nothing has shaken them yet and they'll make it through whatever else may come and end up back here. 

If he can't hold on, she won't let him get away. 

Then there are Amy nights. 

Nights where she scrubs every surface of the kitchen until they shine and the apartment smells like antiseptics. Nights when she reorganizes her meticulous files, empties out her pristine sock drawer and puts it back together. Nights when she spends too long in the bathroom, smoking shame cigarettes out the window. 

She's always been too worried, too tense, too anxious. She always cared too much about things that mattered too little. And he's always wanted to help her care a little less, breathe a little more, calm down.

He's built up an arsenal of jokes and tactics for getting her out of her own head. Some of them even work. He sits down next to her while she sorts and color codes and tells jokes and pokes at her until he can at least get a smile, a grin, get her to close her eyes for a second and take a deep breath. 

He follows her into the bathroom and sits on the counter while she leans out the window. Her shoulders are drawn up to her ears, but he sits near her and tugs at her blouse until she swats him away and smiles. He stands and wraps his arms around her and kisses her cheek and lets her rest her head against his shoulder. 

He helps her fix the sock drawer or the bookshelf or whatever’s wrong in whatever way it's wrong. He screws up, eventually, inevitably, mismatching something, forgetting the order of something else. She rolls her eyes and takes the pair of socks from him or the pile of books, but they can share a smile and a little bit of tension seeps out of her. 

She takes a shower and he makes sure it's short and simple. He braids her hair. It's something that he doesn't expect to work, since he’s usually a disaster with making things neat and she likes doing things herself, having the control so she can make things perfect. He's surprisingly good at it though, and he likes it, as relaxing for him as it proves to be for her. 

When he starts getting bored of the basic braid, he starts watching Youtube tutorials. French braids and fishtails and Dutch braids. 

It's not exactly washing her hair but they decide to never tell Charles. 

At night they climb into bed and he wraps his arms around her, pulls her close, presses kisses to the back of her head and waits for her to fall asleep, relax, melt into the pillow and the mattress and him. 

Of everything, every miraculous thing he never thought he'd have, can barely still believe he does have, this is the thing that surprises him the most. More than Amy, who’s perfect, who amazes him and makes him fall in love with him more each day. More than their apartment, this life they're building together little by little. This, holding Amy in their apartment, not being the little spoon because some nights he wants nothing more than to make her feel safe. And he can. 

He loves her and she loves him. She makes him feel safe and he can make her feel safe too. And they’ll get a million more nights of any type together in their apartment no matter what this year or any year after might throw at them.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This was a nice warm up and hopefully I'll be able to be write more. I'll be trying to update my wips but feel free to send me any prompts. 
> 
> Also feel free to check out my [website](https://cristinafernandezbooks.com) and my [ book ](https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/people-like-us/id1076432088?mt=11). 
> 
>  
> 
> Constructive criticism is also greatly appreciated. ;)


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